The most frustrating thing about being locked in a police cell is that you have no idea of what is going on elsewhere; no knowledge of what lies are being told by others; and no control over if and when you can tell someone what really happened, whether or not they would believe you anyway.

When I arrived at the North Yorkshire Police Headquarters in Northallerton, I was taken into their custody suite, still in handcuffs, and made to stand in front of the custody sergeant’s desk.

‘Reason for arrest,’ he asked.

The policeman on my right answered him. ‘Being found in possession of a firearm in contravention of Section 5 of the Firearms Act 1968.’

The custody sergeant tapped the information into his computer and then he looked up at me. ‘I am authorising your detention under Section 37 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984. Do you have anything to say?’

‘Yes, I do,’ I replied. ‘I only had the gun in my pocket because I had just taken it away from the man who had used it to shoot me.’ I held up my right hand as best I could in the cuffs. ‘It is Harry Asquith you should be charging, not me.’

‘You are not being charged,’ the custody sergeant replied cuttingly. ‘You are only being detained for interview. You can explain everything to the interviewing officer in due course. In the meantime, I will arrange for your hand to be seen by the FME.’

‘FME?’ I asked.

‘The forensic medical examiner.’

They emptied my pockets.

My wallet, a tube of mints and my reading glasses, together with my belt and my wristwatch, were placed in a plastic tray for safekeeping. They then gave me a full pat-down search. Only when they were satisfied that I wasn’t concealing any other weapons did they finally remove the handcuffs.

Next I was photographed and fingerprinted, both my old fingers and the new ones, and then a cotton swab was scraped along the inside of my cheek to obtain a DNA profile. I didn’t bother to explain to them that the DNA of my left hand would be totally different. Finally, I had both hands swabbed for gunshot residue, of which I knew there would worryingly be plenty.

When all was complete, I was taken back to the desk.

‘Right, put him in cell seven,’ the custody sergeant said to my escort,

‘Hold on a minute,’ I complained. ‘Don’t I have the right to make a phone call?’

‘No, you don’t,’ said the sergeant. ‘But you do have the right to have one person informed that you are here.’

I asked him to inform Admiral Roland, and I gave him Charles’s number. The sergeant dialled it straight away on the phone on his desk.